


Alcatraz

by Krystalicekitsu (hotrodngold)



Series: Wings [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Dean Winchester, Angel Sam Winchester, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Presumed Dead, Recovery, The Author Regrets Everything
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-09
Updated: 2017-03-09
Packaged: 2018-10-01 22:22:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10202051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotrodngold/pseuds/Krystalicekitsu
Summary: "You're going to have to accept it, Sam. Eventually."Sam ignores the muttered, "if only so I canleavesometime this millennia", jaw clenched tight and the pressure building to the blowing point."I don'thave-" The glass in front of him cracks with a sharp snapping whine, spider web distortion cleaving the pane into two distinct halves."Careful now, Winchester."





	

**Author's Note:**

> I am so so so sorry it took me this long to continue this.  
> So so sorry.
> 
> I do not have an update schedule for you, except to note I am currently working on this year's Cap_IM Reverse BigBang, so the next chapter is more than likely going to be up well after April 25th.
> 
> This is the last piece in this series. Anticipate a lot of angst and miscommunication (a _**lot**_ of angst) before it gets better, but that's where we're heading. Only way out is through, and all. If you're not a Gabriel fan, I'm sorry, but I'm introducing him in this fic, and as a rather major character. **Please heed the tags:** they will be updated as needed each chapter, but I can tell you right now this will not, with 80% certainty, be as dark as [Vacancies](http://archiveofourown.org/works/268017), if only because I really don't think I can sustain that level of darkness for as long as this fic needs.

Sam stares out the window impassively, the long, unencumbered stretch of gold, glowing mountains sparkling in the setting sun. If he concentrates, he could know the falling light singing out among the peaks, reverberating against and through the stone. He could, if he wanted, taste the air in Fiji, the subtle hints of fear and hope that play along the wind, unwind the flavors of living in his mind and trace them down to their sources. 

It's still disconcerting. Still off-putting.

It still wrenches his heart in two.

He shouldn't be able to hear/see/know these things. He should look out the window, think 'oh, that's a nice colour' and know better than to say that to Dean without getting mocked.

But he can, and he does.

 _~Sam?~_ , the call comes, hesitant behind/around/inside him, but he can feel the shift of Gabriel at his back, off to the side and close but not _too_ close. Not after the last time. For all angels aren't supposed to feel, it's amazing how much those powers hook up to his legendary hot streak.

But now his fist clenches, hackles raise. Fights the sudden pulsing snarl in his throat. Spits out, "Don't _do_ that," because it's not like he hasn't told him a hundred times. Like there's really any point to telling the _Trickster_ to stop something.

"Sorry," the melody falls silent in his head when Gabriel speaks and the silence is almost worse than the pressure/hum/buzz/thrum of another's grace. "You're going to have to accept it, Sam. Eventually."

Sam ignores the muttered, "if only so I can _leave_ sometime this millennia", jaw clenched tight and the pressure building to the blowing point.

"I don't _have_ -," The glass in front of him cracks with a sharp snapping whine, spider web distortion cleaving the pane into two distinct halves.

"Careful now, Winchester."

Sam swallows down his anger and rage until it's back in that deep, dark hole it's lived in for most of his life. He doesn't touch the grief. Isn't sure how, and can convince himself enough days out of the week it isn't there to still be functional and aware.

"Fuck you, Gabriel," Sam snarls, but it's softer, an automatic response programmed in by two months of conditioning. Sam spins and heads for the kitchen.

He doesn't want to eat, doesn't even really feel like eating (and if there's one thing to come of this fuck up it's that he won't have to worry about accidentally starving himself), but making the sandwich- turkey and mustard with tomato, onion, pickle and lettuce on white- busies his hands and occupies his mind. The turkey must be folded _precise_ , the onions sliced just _this_ thick, pickles arranged _thus_ , tomatoes without seeds like _so_. 

Food is safe and, this particular sandwich at least, without memories.

….

Except-

_Flash of a charming smile, slightly shaky around the edges. Sixteen years old and the world still mostly revolves around that smile. That 'everything's all right' smile. Even when the everything is just coming off of a batch of food poisoning and not quite 'all right'._

_"Hold the pickles, doll?" And eyes looked up under lashes of honey gold._

Sam turns away, hands freezing with the bread seconds away from completing the bastardized sandwich.

_"Turkey? What the hell, Sammy?" Aghast, like this was the worst transgression against god and sandwich alike._

_A laugh, "I watched them scrape the roast beast off the floor, Dean. You should be thanking me."_

_"Don't care, bitch. Salmonella's better than chick food. Hey! Turkey, bird. Chick food!" He laughs like he discovered secret millions in gold bars living in the Impala's trunk rather than a bad joke._

_Eyes roll sky high. "Whatever jerk. See if I bring you porn mags next time you're in the hospital for food poisoning."_

With only slightly trembling hands, each piece of the sandwich is removed, turkey and pickles carefully placed aside. The result seems like something he would've made when he was three. Provided he was allowed near knives. And that they had a kitchen.

Or that Dean would've that one time when-

Sam shoves nearly half the sandwich in his mouth with little grace.

He eats above the sink, not for any care for the damn Trickster's sanitation, but because if he sits down, if he lets himself just that tiny measure of comfort, of relief, he might not be able to stop the cascading of his emotions and the inevitable fall out.

He doesn't want to cry. Sam's done enough of that for a lifetime. First over his lover, over _Lucifer's_ damnable fucking martyring sacrifice and then Dean's death.

_Dean._

Sam bites down on his tongue harshly, manages to choke back the tears and pour them into more simmering, directionless rage. He goes back to the window and stares as the sky changes before him.

\---

Damned, _fucking_ Winchester.

Gabriel looks on, watches as Sam's little pity party stretches through the second month. Fucking _Winchesters_.

And sighs. No, not self-pity. Grief.

 _And didn't you spend nearly that entire first century after the War grieving your eyes out?_ he snarks to himself bitterly. Fucking Winchester'd have to do something, _some_ time. Other than eating stupid sandwiches with ridiculous ingredients and almost no nutritional value whatsoever.

He's categorized them as the months went by. After nearly that first week of grieving Lucifer by doing nothing at all that didn't involve staring blankly at walls- and hadn't _that_ come as a shock? That Lucifer actually cared about his vessel. That those rumors of the not-Apocalypse were true- Sam had sat down and made himself a sandwich. Bacon and lettuce and tomato with provolone and smoked cheddar on sourdough bread. 

He'd gotten halfway through the sandwich before tossing it away and scampering for the bathroom. 

Gabriel'd been curious when he'd thrown it up more than concerned; it's not like angels could get food poisoning. And that's what Sam was now. Only not really. 

But for all intents and purposes he was; he'd never die from a bullet, or claws. Couldn't starve himself to death. He didn't need air, or water, or sleep and he'd never need to worry about being crushed, and while being exploded or dismembered might freak out the little bit of mortal his mind was still fervently clinging too, once he had his meatsuit- _body_ back, he wouldn't even notice.

But the war outside, stripped of both its generals—and Dean saying yes, wasn’t that another shock—was turning into a scrambled clash for power and resources. There was no chance one side or the other would win, not in a definitive way, and if either side had any idea that their bosses hadn’t wanted a confrontation, you could hardly tell.

And he was sitting on one of the keys to locking this whole mess up again.

Damn everything.

He knows the reflection of moonlight on wings, the crisp chill of void and space. He could tell a child the true name of everything on Earth, of the way to summon gods and destroy demons and he could even how to catch starlight, but explaining to someone how to get unlost from out of grief- that’s one skill he’s never had.

Gabriel’s not sure how to explain to Sam something that he doesn’t believe in. That neither of them believe in, and while the two unbelievers suffer, there’s a war destroying the world, and two brothers that are still dead and he has no idea what to do.

He can stand and watch a newly born brother kill himself with grieving but he has no idea what to do.

“Father, help me.”

Thankfully, even with as interesting as this whole line of shit was, he had a cover to keep up, and a whole world full of hypocritical assholes to occupy his time.

Time to earn his donuts.

\---

Above him, the fan spins on, dappled light filtering down around him.

Below him, springs in an old, weather-and-time worn mattress.

 _Whuff- whuff_.

One, two.

Ever endless. Ever unchang-

Voices.

Not raised. 

Brief. Emotionless. Factual.

Despairing.

Dean Winchester turns his head aside and watches the light break under the shadows, rolling like waves.

 _Whuff- whuff_.

One, two.

 _Whuff- whuff_.

One, two.

\---

Castiel stares at the turkey and tuna and pickle sandwich, a slice of cheese in each hand and thinks. He thinks about war and tactics and strategies because there’s little else to do. He adds the pepper jack cheese from his left hand to the pile, covers it with tomato and lettuce. He stares a little longer.

Doubts that Dean will eat this one, either.

Fourth step down creaks predictably when he steps on it, and the light still hums when he turns it on. Nothing’s changed.

“Dean?” Even he hasn’t changed.

The door opens smoothly, if slowly with one hand. Dean is lying on the cot face up, perfectly blank, and Castiel tries not to look at him too long. The soft, grating screech of disharmonious grace is terrible. The look of exhausted defeat is worse.

Castiel sets the sandwich on the table at the end of the bed. Collects the stale, untouched one. Castiel hasn’t changed either.

But someone has to. Because the world is changing without them, and not for the better.

“Lucifer’s forces are moving.”

Dean doesn’t move. Castiel hadn’t expected him to.

Castiel thinks this might be what finally kill his grace.

“Dean. Heaven isn’t winning.”

Castiel thinks, at this point, that there is no point. He’s not sure if this is a reflection of Dean, or of his own, because he’d also lost family, lost a brother and an adopted one and he knows that keeping Dean alive is the only thing keeping him alive. He’s just not sure that either of them is _living_ anymore.

“Dean, Hell isn’t winning either.”

Dean slowly turns his head to look at him, and Castiel doesn’t know if that look is any better, but at least Dean is moving now. The first time in Castiel’s presence.

“I…” Castiel doesn’t know what to say to get Dean moving. He has no idea how to comfort someone who just lost everything.

For a second he is blisteringly, incandescently enraged. 

The emotion dies when Dean doesn’t so much as twitch, and Castiel understands that rage is as useful here as the sandwiches he makes day after day, and the coffee he now drinks because it reminds him of Sam, and the way he stares out across a broken field, waiting for a ping of familiar grace that will never come. 

He knows that Dean is broken beyond a miracle of hope and the best thing, the kindest thing, would be to let him fall and never get up, but Castiel is selfish. Castiel is selfish and if Dean is all he has left, then Dean is _all_ he has left, and Castiel has too little to pick and choose what to keep.

If Dean won’t save himself, Castiel will wait until he can.

But he might not have to wait forever.

“You said-,” Dean’s voice cracks, sharp like a dry twig. Castiel watches him swallow, watches him wet his lips.

“Lucifer’s forces,” Dean rasps out, “You said ‘Lucifer’s forces’.”

Castiel waits. He thinks if that’s all he gets that he might break from the waiting for more, but Dean opens his mouth again and Castiel cannot breathe for the hope.

“Not ‘hell’s army’, you said ‘Lucifer’s forces’.”

“Yes,” Castiel admits. 

He’s not sure he should tell him about the reports he’s been hearing, about the whispers and rumors because it can’t be true, he refuses to believe it. Castiel thinks he might be thinking wishful thoughts but he saw Lucifer’s grace one too many times, brushed against his brother too often, to think those thoughts without more than a little doubt.

“Why.”

Castiel thinks.

“ _Cas_.”

Castiel thinks some more. 

“Because there are rumors that Lucifer is alive and directing Hell’s forces.”

Castiel freezes at the explosion rippling through placid grace.

“What.” Dean’s voice is flat, his eyes searing, and his grace-

Castiel does _not_ take a step back, he doesn’t. By grace, he wants to, but this is Dean, actually _Dean_ , the first he’s seen of the man in a worrying amount of time.

\---

“-an’ I don’t think you marchin on in with a new drum beat is the thing he’s been waitin for.”

Castiel bites back a frustrated sigh, swallows it down. He understands, really he does, but-

“If you have another suggestion, I’d love to hear it. _We’re running out of time_. If Lucifer’s truly traded sides, we’re under a very specific and restricting timeline. We need to get fresh intelligence and, your personal opinions aside, Dean is an archangel, with all that entails.”

Bobby gives him such a long stare, dry as the surface of a star, that Castiel fights not to fidget under. Too long. Too long among humans; he has no poker face anymore.

“You _really_ think sticking him in front of a demon right now is the best plan?” Bobby scoffs. “You’d have more hamburger than demon, and less information to boot.”

Patience already thin, Castiel fights back a growl. 

They’re so close– _he’s_ so close. He can’t keep Dean locked away indefinitely, can’t bring Sam back, or kill Lucifer, but he _can_ at least do this. He can keep his suicidal ex-charge from languishing in his grief, direct his anger, give him a _purpose_ , even if it’s only revenge. 

Revenge or death, that’s not even a choice.

“ _I_ can’t take on Moloch on my own; we need an archangel for that,” Castiel insists. “And we currently have only one of those at our disposal.”

“An’ I’m telling you,” Bobby growls back, “Unless you want demon tartar, you’ll find yourself another way about it.”

Castiel looks away, jaw tensing, because he knows all this, knows the risks, knows every argument Bobby will make, but _they are running out of time_. Moloch is too old, too powerful, to be kept in his trap for long. They’re wasting valuable time, more valuable a resource, and they both know exactly how this is going to end anyway. 

He leans forward because, Amon take them all, this is the way they are doing this, whether or not Bobby Singer wants to admit it.

“Tell me you told me so after, if you want, but this is happening.” Castiel voices the words low, angry, irritated. The hunter has wasted enough time.

Exasperated, Bobby throws his hands up, “fine! You want him- take him. Finally get my damn panic room back.”

_Look after my boy. Don’t let him destroy himself over this._

“We’ll be back soon.” Done with everything, Castiel turns about and heads for the door. 

Purpose. Dean just needs purpose.


End file.
